"At last you finally win something, man," Tyler said.
The boy wasn't even paying attention to him. What stunned him was that he'd been the only one out of forty drivers who hadn't realized there had been cheating—and it was him, of all people. The other competitor. From his own team. Instead of listening, he watched with a bitter, almost wicked grin as Alan walked back into the party and joined the rest of the guys, who clapped for him like he was the real third-place finisher of the Grand Prix.
They barely had time to mess around; in two weeks, the Macau Grand Prix was coming up. There wasn't even alcohol at their so-called "party"—not because they were underage, everyone knew nobody gave a shit about that. There were worse things going on, but neither of the two people who actually mattered to us were involved. What caught Crust's attention was how some of the guys looked so... slow. You know—slow drivers. Especially Tyler. He could barely even stay on his feet.
Christopher Crust and Finn Aldon were out on the balcony. They were laughing and telling stale jokes that didn't even make them laugh themselves, but they'd known each other for years; Finn was probably the only person there who actually talked to Crust.
He was the rich kid. Before he was even born, he already had more money than any of them. Almost all of them were rich—but Crust was the richest. In this world, you're supposed to pretend you earn your place, and Crust didn't even bother pretending. If anything, he flaunted it.
"How can your cars be such fucking trash when Tyler's are rockets?" Finn said.
"They actually want Tyler to win. The fucking director makes more money betting than he ever would if he had the world champion."
"Jesus, what a fucking loser," Finn said, laughing nastily. "How did your dad even get you into such a pathetic group? Tell him to get you into Leviathan Club—at least you'd keep me company. That asshole Blake Morrow is a faggot, man. He doesn't even try to hide it. Didn't you see him screaming 'Finn, Finn...' in Montreal last month? Fuck, and people never stop making memes about us, and these assholes mocking us. Everyone thinks we're faggots. How the hell did they put someone as effeminate as Morrow on the team?"
Finn nudged Christopher's shoulder, expecting him to laugh.
Christopher didn't. He just stared at him, pissed off.
"First of all, my dad doesn't get me into teams. I have to do that myself. If my last name helps, fine—but half the time it actually makes things harder, because absolutely everything I win gets tied to my last name. Sometimes I don't even know if I'm actually good or if it's just my last name... whatever. And second—what's your problem exactly? That he's a faggot, or that he's effeminate?"
"First," Finn said mockingly, "you're an asshole. Of course he helps you—you're not fooling me. Second, I don't give a shit about either of those things, just don't drag me into his bullshit. I'm not a fairy. And third—you're still an asshole."
"My dad doesn't really help me. What he probably noticed is that they've been giving me the same car without even maintaining it, and he went to complain to the Boss. I'm not making this up—he's betting that fucking Alan Marti is going to win the World Cup this year."
"Spaniards are the best, man, but stop whining already. You're a billionaire, you're good-looking, you're in fashion magazines. You've got everything figured out—let us mortals win something for once."
"Bullshit. I don't care about any of that. I love tires. Speed. That's it. But they're fucking me over. I don't mean shit to anyone on this team. They only signed me because of my last name, and nobody else wanted me because of my last name—and you're telling me I'm whining?"
"Oh yeah? And what about Sue?" Finn said. "Have you fucked her yet?"
Christopher rolled his eyes.
"You're a fucking virgin. You haven't even broken in your dick yet and you want to qualify. Asshole. They did you a favor."
Christopher didn't reply. He just walked away and left him talking to himself. He only heard him mutter "asshole" one more time before Finn walked off too.
In a way, he was right. Yeah—he was whining. He was seventeen and already convinced he was a failure. Teenage drama. But he was also right about one thing: if he was a cheater, then what the fuck was that bastard Nesspet?
Before leaving the party, he saw Alan. Finn's words had pissed him off, but the moment he saw Alan, the anger surged up all over again.
There were two Christophers overlapping, like reflections that didn't quite line up. One burned with rage, ready to tear the air apart with a scream. The other watched calmly, with an unexpected tenderness that made no sense at all. Around him, the guys danced as if time were rubber—stretching and snapping back—while he stayed frozen in place. In the end, the furious Christopher took over.
"Asshole!" he shouted. "I could beat you in a race with my eyes closed. Enjoy your 250 points—because from now on the only thing you're going to see is my ass."
"What ass?" Alan said, looking him up and down.
At that moment, Christopher Crust—seventeen years old—was a fucking twink. Everyone burst out laughing.
"What ass, Crust?" Tyler yelled from the other side, looking drunk at a party with no alcohol. "What ass? You don't even have one."
They were all laughing their asses off. Crust looked at every single one of them, his eyes moving from face to face. To them, he was a complete idiot, and he knew it. They were all convinced he was the worst driver in the competition—not just because he'd lost every Grand Prix so far except Shanghai, but because of the resentment they had toward him for being Crust Company's spoiled boy. All of it spilled out through their laughter, echoing in the back of his mind.
He looked down at the floor, embarrassed—then snapped out of it and fixed his furious gaze on Alan Marti's mouth. He wanted to see it bleeding. Missing at least one fucking tooth. He lunged at him faster than Alan could react and barely clipped his shoulder before the others grabbed him. Tyler and Finn dragged him away with help from the rest, who could barely hold him back. They took him to the elevator.
"That's enough, champ," Tyler said, barely able to stay on his feet himself. Christopher wondered how the hell he was that drunk. "Tomorrow's a new day. This shit gets settled on the track—where it counts. Don't listen to these assholes, okay?"
Christopher locked himself in his hotel room, furious. He changed clothes and went straight to the gym. He started pounding the punching bag, imagining it was Alan Marti.
That night, Christopher made two decisions: he was going to start going to the gym every week—enough of being so flat—and he was going to win every single race.
He pulled out his pad and went over every race left. If he won all of them, finishing first, he'd reach 316 points—maybe 328 at best. But Alan already had 250. It was almost impossible to catch him at this point, but he was going to give it everything he had.
The morning before the Macau Grand Prix, he met with the entire maintenance team. The Boss watched him closely while Christopher fiddled with the defective car, talking on the phone. He could hear him saying "Uncle Roger" over and over again.
"What are you plotting?" the Boss said, startling him.
"I'm done," Christopher snapped. "You and your fucking team are sabotaging me. If I don't win this race, I swear I'll drag you through every Chinese outlet—and even the fucking Monaco press."
"If you don't want this to be your last race, you won't—"
"I'm withdrawing today," Christopher cut in. "And if I withdraw, you get disqualified. And if you get disqualified, you can forget about your little cut from Lynx Group."
He turned to walk toward the garage, but the Boss stopped him.
"Then what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Stop sabotaging me. This car belongs in the trash—it's more bumper car than single-seater. I didn't want to complain so they wouldn't call me a nepo baby, but I'm done," he shouted.
"Okay, okay—drive the car you used in Shanghai."
"No. I'm using Tyler Reese's car. He won't notice—it's ready, right? He can take the other one."
Christopher noticed Sue listening.
"Switch our numbers, please," he said.
Arms crossed, a look of barely contained satisfaction on her face, she smiled at Crust—then shot the Boss a look that absolutely destroyed him.